


whø is blurryface and why døes he want me dead?

by heavydiirtysoul



Category: BLURRYFACE - Twenty One Pilots (Album), Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Therapy, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavydiirtysoul/pseuds/heavydiirtysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots inspired by twenty one pilots songs. As I write while inspiration strikes, these stories might turn out to be connected to each other or stand-alone pieces -- or both. We'll see, I guess?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. §1.:heavydirtysoul

„It's like bugs are crawling under my skin. Like,  
this endless buzzing, and movements, like an itch  
you can't reach, like.. like an infestation, and I  
can't find a way to get rid of it.“

His hands were ruffling through his hair, causing the dark brown strands to spike up in ten different directions. Sunlight was filtering through dirty, old curtains, illuminating the dust whirling through the air in an invisible breeze, not strong enough to be felt on skin, but enough to let the pieces float in endless circles, patterns and constellations.

The man across the table wrote something down on his notepad, pushing his glasses up with his index finger. It wasn't a nervous gesture, Tyler knew that much, but more of a sign that Dr. Shepard wasn't too sure of what he wanted to say next, where he wanted to take their 'conversation', as he liked to call it – therapy session, Tyler always corrected him, you're a shrink, and I'm a lunatic. And the grey-haired, thin man would shake his head with a disapproving huff, but wouldn't object because he already knew that Tyler only wanted to be provocative.

„How do you normally cope with this kind of sensation?“

Dr Shepards voice was soft, warm, almost soothing, and Tyler liked that about him. Most people had voices that hurt, voices that were loud and intrusive and hard as rocks against skin, painful, weapons. But Dr Shepard's wasn't, and Tyler had decided that this alone was reason enough to keep coming back, to sit on the old, worn out couch with the scratchy fabric and spill his heart out – at least to the extend that he allowed himself. He was a strict person, an almost endless catalogue of rules and regulations made sure that he was able to keep himself in line, that kept him steady – steadier, at least – and making sure that he kept his heavy, dirty secret, the one he would never dare to see sunlight was rule number one.

He realized he'd been silent for a while, sighing with annoyance in his voice upon the question.

„Why do you ask questions you know the answer to, Dr. Shepard?“

„Because I'm not the one that needs to find new coping mechanisms, Tyler.“ The doctor hesitated for a moment, eyes wandering to Tyler's hands, and with a lightning bolt of realization and shame Tyler realized he had been doing it again. Fingernails digging into his arm, leaving dark red crescents on alabaster skin, and he quickly shuffled back, pulled his knees up to his chest, fleeing back into his own prison that was so much more comfortable and safe than whatever was lurking in the shadows just beyond his peripheral vision.

„Tyler.“

He let the elastic around his wrist snap, a quiet slap against his skin, and the comforting, burning sensation slid up his arm and into his veins with fire.

„Tyler, look at me, please?“

Blodhsot, red eyes lazily found their way to lock gaze with the doctor, and Tyler almost grinned upon the borderline scared expression on the other mans' face.

„You know you can't help me anyways, don't you? Why do  
you keep trying? Is a lost case so much fun? Or do you  
just enjoy watching me suffer, hm? Is that it? Are you  
just a disgusting little sadist? Because we both know  
you can't save me.“

Tyler hesitated for a second, every inch of his body revolting against the violent words falling from his lips, bouncing off the dirty carpet and spreading into every last corner of the room, closing in on him, circling him like his own personal demons were unleashed straight from hell, and he was screaming by now, screaming into the other man's face.

„So, tell me. Can you save me?!“

There was so much noise in the room; although the Doctor was silent. Tyler's own words echoing back at him, the clock ticking somehow louder than before, like cannonballs ringing in his ears, his own heavy breathing, distant talking swaying into the room from down the street, slurred voices as loud as if someone was screaming right into his ears. His hands were clutching to his face, to his neck, choking back the words that banged against the seal of his lips, clawing and fighting to push them back, push him back where he belonged, chained and imprisoned in the darkest corner of his heavy, dirty, oh-so-dirty soul.

It took him a few minutes to win the fight, to calm himself down, to regain his composure, and he finally collapsed onto the couch, grasp of his hands around his neck loosening before falling uselessly into his lap. He almost jumped when he looked at his hands -- as if someone had covered them in tar and dirt and resin, they were pitch black, and with an involuntary shake of his head he focused his eyes, only to find his hands were back to normal.

„Is that what you think you are, Tyler? A lost cause?“

The Doctor's voice snapped him out of his shocked state. He couldn't believe that Dr Shepard was left utterly unimpressed by his sudden outburst, and the angry groan leaving Tyler's lips was more frustration than anything else.

„Don't we both think that?“

„No, Tyler. I don't think you're a lost cause.  
I think you're a deeply scarred human being who  
has survived horrible things, who is now too  
afraid to open up to anyone or ask for help. But  
I also think we're making progress, Tyler. We're  
starting to touch onto the roots of your fear,  
onto the source of this exhausting struggle you've  
been living with for years now, and I think that every  
last cell of your body is revolting against it. It's a  
self-defense mechanism, to supress traumatic events  
of the past, and your body and soul are doing whatever  
they can to protect you. But in order to heal, one must  
first understand. The key to your future lies within  
your past. And that's where we will need to go, where  
we'll look for whatever has hurt you enough to make you ill.“

Tyler listened, the expression on his face one of pure disbelief and doubt, but he was too tired to object, so he stayed quiet. After a few minutes of silence, the Doctor sighed and placed his notepad on the tiny table next to his seat.

„I'm afraid we're out of time for today, Tyler. Please  
remember to take your medication. Susanne at the counter  
will let you know when your next appointment is.“

He pushed his glasses up again, eyes locking with Tyler's for a second before he looked away to check the time on his wristwatch.

„Go home, get some rest. Is your mother picking you up again?“

Tyler just nodded, leaving the room with small, tired steps without a goodbye.


	2. TAKEN BY SLEEP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyler, alone in his room. It’s 4am, and he’s awake, and this particular time of night brings back memories he thought he’d buried deep enough.
> 
> TW: self-harm mention, depression, suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Reader discretion advised - if you are easily triggered by depictions of how it is like to have a panic attack/dissociative episode/the feeling of depersonalisation and derealisation please do not read this.

**4:05am.**

When his tired eyes graze the red digits of his electronical alarm clock, the numbers sting with a familiar burn beneath his throat he hasn’t felt in a long time.

There were memories tied to this specific time of the night, memories buried and chained away deep in his subconscious, painful reminders of dark places, even darker hours, and the pitch black feeling of suffocating because your own mind wants to see you dead.

Sitting up, he pulls his knees up to his chest, his arms twisting around them, holding himself as if he needed the tight confinement of his own limbs to keep him from falling apart. You won’t cry. You won’t go back there. You are stronger than this. Please, please just **stop thinking**!

But his own head is a traitor, and even his arms can’t hold him together anymore. A soft sob is startled out of him as he chokes for air, heart pounding in his chest as loud as cannonballs, and he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears. He can’t breathe. Drowning, water in his lungs, and he can’t breathe.

He knows he has to get up, walk around, shake his head, twitch and twist and turn and shake and make these thoughts go away, but he can’t. A prisoner in his own mind, he sits on his bed, hands fisting the damp fabric of his sheets, legs crossed now, unable to run away. How do you outrun your own demons?

 

You don’t.

 

**4:07am.**

His heart is still pounding fast, and his thoughts are racing along, a breathless sprint to the finish line, and he knows he can’t wait for them to get there, to see who wins this time, his heart or his head, his throat or his fingers, guns or nooses or hands or leashes or a rubberband around his wrist or the razor in the top drawer of the nightstand.

It’s been years. Years and years and days and minutes and seconds and they’re right there, pounding against his skull, screaming at him, as loud as ever, stupid boy, stupid small worthless boy, thinking you could take us out, thinking giving us a name and talking about us and fighting us and writing stupid worthless songs about us would make us weaker?

He feels like screaming, but he can’t make a sound.

 

**4:08am.**

Sweat, damp hair clinging to his forehead, shaking limbs and teary eyes and silence and shadows creeping in the corners of his room and monsters lurking in the darkness of his peripheral vision and the demons are right there, **right here** , right beside him, and it’s so heartbreakingly familiar that he just endures it, fingers lingering on the three thin lines grazing his wrist, and he’s not sure if he will make it this time, not sure if he wants to.

Alone, alone, alone, so alone, is there anybody out there? If you can’t put it into words, you can’t fight it, and if you can’t make it count, then why bother trying? If you can’t find the words, what’s there left to do? If you can’t write it, can you explain it? If there are no words left, if you don’t have your voice, what is your excuse? What’s your purpose? What is there left for you to do if everything you live for is stripped away in your own head, layer by layer of skin peeled off of bones and you’re naked and defenseless underneath the gaze of your own demons and you know that just giving in would be so much easier than fighting it?

 

**4:09am.**

He’s panting, yet he still can’t breathe.

 

**4:10am.**

Nails digging red crescents into his skin, just beneath his jaw, clawing on his neck, desperately trying to tear the sobs out of his throat, what are you trying to do? **What are you trying to do?** Those are not his words, that is not his voice, that’s not you, who are you? Who are you when you’re not you? When you’re not what you think you were, when you’re nothing but a pile of scattered bones and broken smiles and faded scars on tan skin and you’re so thin, so flat, so empty that not even pain can fill you up enough to make you feel something?

 

_WHO ARE YOU_

 

Who are you when the face in the mirror isn’t yours, when the eyes staring back at you are hostile and dangerous and when your own hands are weapons designed to kill whatever was left of you, when your body is nothing but a vessel doomed to decay and to fade and everything you ever created is buried and dead and ashes black like tar and you can’t breathe because the air is poison and every breath you draw just pushes you closer to the edge?

 

**4:11am.**

Everything hurts.

Every muscle, every cell, every last drop of blood in his body is screaming for the sweet release that only pain can give him, and he’s close now. Maybe closer than ever. He still hasn’t moved, his eyes fixed on the darkness in his room, and he hasn’t moved, but then again, he has, somehow, kneeling in front of his nightstand (how did you get here? **What are you trying to do?** ) and his fingers are fidgeting with the knob and there it is, glistening dangerously beautiful in the dark, and it’s so comforting, old friend, it’s just what I need to do, please don’t hate me. Please don’t leave me? This is not what you’re supposed to see. This is not who I am, this is just some shadow and it doesn’t mean anything, just a small relapse in a world so much bigger than me. Just one cut, just one, it won’t mean anything, it’s just a tiny cut and then I will stop and it will all be okay. I just need to do this right now, please forgive me? This is not me, but it’s me, just this other me, but he’s nothing, he’s not here to stay, I’ll let him bleed out and he will be gone, just one small cut to release the pain, just one small cut to scare those demons away. Scare them away because how strong must he be, how strong to take a blade to his own skin? How strong to take this pain, take this pain and multiply it, we are not as strong as he is. And they will leave, and I will be okay. I will be okay, right? I will be okay. I am okay. It means nothing. I am nothing. I am nothing. I’m just me, **and I am nothing**.

 

**4:15am.**

His legs are buzzing with the uncomfortable, crouching position, and his fingertips are still clinging onto the knob of the open drawer, beads of sweat on his forehead, blood rushing in his ears.

 

_WHO ARE YOU_

 

I am me.

 

_BUT WHO IS ME?_

 

I am me. I am myself.

 

Am I myself?

 

Is this who I am? Is this me?

 

**4:16am.**

Tiny footsteps on wooden floor, dried tears salty on his lips, and Josh’s bedroom is a sanctuary, and Josh’s arms are safe and strong and they can hold him together if he just clings to them desperately enough, and Josh’s voice drowns out the demons and Josh is there, and he’s safe, and I might be crying, but I’m not alone and I am myself, and I might be nothing, but this, this is everything, heartbeats in his chest that aren’t his own, breath in his ear that isn’t his own, and your life isn’t yours, but it’s his and you can’t take it away from him, and you might not be you but he is Josh and he will always be and you will be okay. I will be okay.

 

I will be okay.

 

**4:17am.**

He’s almost asleep in Josh’s arms, and a last thought lingers in his mind. You’ll have to get a fourth line on your wrist.


	3. Hometown

Almost all the time -- everything was just a bit too much. A bit too loud, a bit too bright, a bit too overwhelming, and those were the moments he needed his rooftop the most. It wasn't a special rooftop, at least not from the looks of it: Plain, grey floor, a few chimneys, the hollow, metal shells of the ventilation shafts – it was a simple rooftop, with the urban charm of the golden industrial age. It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't special, yet there was no place in the world for him that was as precious as this rooftop.

Most days -- he would bring his ukulele with him, just to sit on the edge of the roof, legs dangling against the scratchy surface of the building, the streets distant and tiny underneath his feet, so much less threatening from up here. He would sing, mostly his own songs, sometimes others, sometimes no songs at all, just melodies washing up ashore in his mind, only to retreat to the ocean again after a few chords, coming back changed, neverending twists and turns and new perspectives, and he let them come and go, no need to get ahold of them, no need to let them linger longer than they wanted to. 

Sometimes -- he would pray. Pray for guidance, for strength, sometimes for simple things like a good nights sleep or a minute of silence to catch his breath in this ever moving, ever so fast world. He barely had time for himself nowadays, and it just amplified his need for peace and quiet until it was an unbearable urge to scream for the earth to shut up, to shut up so he could think. 

On rare occasions -- he brought a cup of coffee with him, light, with milk, and maybe a bit of sugar, just a hint of sweet in the bitter taste, just enough to make it enjoyable. He forgot about it more often than not; letting it sit next to him until the liquid was cold and he had to force it down with a few quick gulps, making a funny face at the stale taste.

Never – never had he been here in the daylight. The night was the time for the rooftop, the dark and the quiet and the peaceful island in a vast land of noise and danger and monsters in his head. People always thought the monsters came in the dark; for him, they came in the daytime, with shrieking voices and demanding hands, clinging to him like the predators they were.

On rare occasions – he lost his fight against them. He'd shrivel like a dying flower, tiny and restless and yet unable to move, and the tears didn't bring salvation, they only suffocated him and took his breath and made him believe what the monsters said, that he was weak, worthless, just a tiny light in an ocean of flames and noone would notice if you were gone, so maybe you should jump.

Sometimes – he actually thought about the option, the lingering emergency exit, the only door you can only open once, and when it closes again, it's forever. A small disturbance in the big works of the world, just one step forward and everything is different, but then again not, because it's only him and he doesn't matter that much to that many people.

Most days – he wasn't alone. There was a heart beating next to him, there was blood pumping through veins that weren't his, there was breath filling lungs and moving a chest that weren't his, and there were hands folded in a lap that wasn't his. There was a mouth saying words that weren't his, and pink hair in the sunlight swaying in the breeze, just slightly, and the world seemed a bit less grey.

Almost all the time – he found shelter in his fortress, in strong arms and soothing phrases and calloused hands on his back. 

Always – he survived.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was the first part I wrote. Feel free to leave comments, critics or even ideas for other works, I'm always happy to find new inspiration!


End file.
